


He's A Friend

by The_Fictionist_Aura



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Hostage Situation, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fictionist_Aura/pseuds/The_Fictionist_Aura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Season 1 Finale AU - Reese finally finds Finch, though not in a good state. "It was an odd pair to say the least. Not that working at a New York hospital brought up normal people. Quite the contrary. And yet the nurse had a feeling these two weren't as unusual as the rest. That they were special. If that made any sense." Friendship only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was an odd pair to say the least. Not that working at a New York hospital brought up normal people. Quite the contrary. And yet the nurse had a feeling these two weren't as unusual as the rest. That they were special. If that made any sense.

A somewhat tan man in a dark suit was pushing a wheelchair. The man had dirt patches all over him, almost as if he had been in a fight recently. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, he even had a cut on his lip. Then there was the figure in the wheelchair. Their face wasn't visible, only the top of his (she assumed) head. The head bobbled as the pair approached, the fingers on either side of him remaining her of a dead squid.

The younger gentleman pushing the wheelchair fixed her with a cool stare. "He's been beaten fairly badly," he reported in a husky voice. Despite the stoic poker face, the light eyes had a hint of pleading in them. The nurse stooped down and lightly turned the drooped head of the unconscious man in the wheelchair upward. He looked a bit older than his…guardian, was really the only word that came to mind. His features could have been compared to a human version of a mouse. Unconsciously she found herself taking off his askew glasses. They were round and old fashion, similar to the sweater vest that someone had hastily slapped on his body.

"Black eye," She murmured, examining the rest of his face before tugging a bit at the battered army green vest. Then she paused and looked toward the younger man.

"And you are...?"

"Mr. Reese." He said shortly. A vein popping in his neck showed mild irritation.

"I meant your relation with this man." The New Yorker in her couldn't help thinking how odd this looked. A strong, healthy guy who had the look of a hit for hire and a frail beaten man. Didn't take a genius to add things up.

"He's a friend," Reese found himself saying, actually blinking in surprise at his own words. The nurse continued to look skeptical. "A close friend…my partner." He wasn't lying in fact. Finch was his partner. Ever since the baby carriage bomb incident, he had never quite seen him as an unfeeling boss but a caring equal. He was also Fin- Harold's, he told himself, friend. You had to be a friend to go through all the lengths he did to find him. And to suffer the guilt he felt at being unable to prevent this whole fiasco.

The hands of the nurse's hips had slacked and he had a feeling something must had shown on his face. "Get him on the bed then." She waved toward the stiff board of cotton that reeked of bleach. In one fluid motion, Finch was propped into the bed like a china doll. The nurse leaned over him and carefully felt his rib cage, reaching underneath his sweater.

"Two fractured ribs I think," she scrunched her face in concentration. Next, she tilted his head back and forth. Pulling an eyelid open, she checked his pupil dilation and found herself starting at a bloodshot blue eye. "Multiple cuts and bruises on his arms and hands," She took note of dried bloodstains that had leaked from his wounds upon the white Oxford shirt he had on.

"Gunshot to the shoulder?" She glanced at the first aid patch. Reese remained silent. He had cut a square of fabric away from Finch's shirt and put pressure on it for what seemed like hours before he had the guts to move him out of the hellhole where he found him. A small smirk feel o his face. He had a feeling Finch wouldn't mind the destruction of his clothing. The nurse was reaching for his pant leg when Reese spoke up.

"He's got a limp." His voice was flat and had a neutral tone to it. Nevertheless, she took her hands away from his companion's leg. Something told her he wanted her to stop.

"Well you did the right thing with the gunshot. We'll probably need an X-Ray to check his bones though." Reese nodded, too busy looking at the man she was talking about to really listen. He looked so…weak. Despite all their time together, Finch had never struck him as weak. He always had a sort of pride in his dysfunctional walk. He had the aura of a man that knew what he was doing despite the fact he most likely had no clue. Sometimes, John tilted his head, not all the time. More often than not, Harold had proven that he was quite brilliant at planning ahead and helping with missions. Not that Reese praised him a lot for it. Perhaps he should have.

"Mr. Reese?" He felt a clipboard and pen being shoved into his hands. "We're going to need a report on what happened and your friend's name and insurance. There are a couple more forms I'll just go get them real fast, ok?" She didn't wait for his answer and walked out of the room in her scrubs. She must have thought that he was in shock.

In truth, he had seen many agents who were the subject of torture during his time in The Company. Some of them he had been responsible for torturing. So why did this make him feel this way? Make him far so…emotional?

He pulsed his lip and looked down at the paper. The hospital smell was getting to him, he supposed.


	2. Chapter 2

"What are ya, scared of a pen and paper?" Fusco grumbled into the phone. He had just been ready to bite into one of his favorite vender's chili dogs when an unknown number had started calling. After settling down on a park table, he reluctantly answered the phone. To be honest, he was relieved that Bird Man (a name he liked to call Finch in private) was finally in safe hands. The cop felt every bit as grateful toward him as he did Reese for saving his life back in the woods. And although he would never tell, he would do anything to repay them.

"No," Reese's voice had a forced calm about it. "But I need you to help make this disappear. Along with the three dead men at a warehouse I'll tell you about when you get here." John was standing with his back to Finch in his hospital room. His index finger was barely lifting a window blind as he watched the hustle and bustle of the hospital hallways.

"I don't need to need to fill out paperwork to do that. Just let me call-"

"Lionel," on the other end, Fusco stifled a groan. He had that tone of voice that remained of his mother during his childhood. It irked him to no end.

"Alright, alright," Reese heard some shuffling in the background, "before ya sass me to death I'll come. Sometime today." Before he hung up, John heard a low 'I should be getting paid for this'. He chuckled.

Shoving his phone in his pocket, his eyes continued to scan the hallway but there was no sign of a threat. He pulled his hand away from the window and lightly tapped his now treated lip cut. The nurse had come in earlier with a packet of papers, a cloth and rubbing alcohol. She had been very persistent on cleaning up his cut. Too tired to argue, he had sat still and let her do her work, watching Finch to avoid her eyes. It had been strange to have someone take care of him. It made him uncomfortable.

He turned on the heels of his feet and went to sit on the chair to the right of Finch's bed. The stack of papers had been tossed on the floor next to his soiled jacket. He cracked his knuckles absent – mindedly. If there was any benefit to working in the Company, it was that there was no need for paperwork.

His gaze shifted to the man in bed. Harold's breathing was slow and tranquil. In fact, it had to be one of the few times that John had seen his friend look peaceful. The other times had been with Will and on a rare occasion, he did catch Finch smiling at a book as he read. The smile had disappeared the second he entered the room.

That was in the early days though. It couldn't be denied that Finch had grown a bit loose. The fact that he had actually joked about missions at times. Reese smiled at the memory.

Thanks for that newsflash, Mr. Reese. Here I was planning to move at a sloth-like pace and get captured.

The bookworm had opened up to him. But did he see Reese as a friend or a colleague? It was hard to see. John tilted his head, letting his eyes wander to the various machines surrounding the bed. He could usually read people and find out what they wanted. No one ever approached him without something to gain, something they wanted or wanted done. Trying to get a read on Harold was like driving in thick fog. Every now and then, you would get a shimmer of an emotion, worry perhaps but in an instant, the robotic countenance returned. He shook his head suddenly. He hadn't pondered this much about a relationship since Jessica.

Finch moved ever so slightly in bed. He instantly felt naked without his glasses. He kept his eyes shut, not wanting to see where he was now. There was a stiff bed under him and several needles in his right arm. At least they're healing me, he thought. Only to pummel to a pulp again of course, the cynical side of his brain told him. His shoulder was throbbing but he couldn't remember what had happened to cause it. That had been happening to him a lot lately. His captors would tell him how many days it had been since he had been awake before continuing where they left off. But they had never healed him before. He took a slow breath through his nose. Bleach. Dirt. There was the faint buzz of people talking about outside of the room he was being held in. Where was he?

It was a small change but Reese noticed it. Finch's breathing had quickened and his face had tensed. His eyebrows make a small motion of knitting together. He was awake. John stood up and took a step toward the bed.

Someone was in the room with him and standing over him. Yet they didn't say anything. Finch felt perplexed. This was completely out of the normal behavioral pattern of this group, he pondered. They were the arrogant type, shouting out their accomplishments mainly for the sound of their own voice. He could hear their breathing, like a calming rhythm. Unlike the usual ragged huffs from adrenaline – filled predators.

"Wakie, wakie," Reese breathed quietly, eyes glued to Harold's face. Slowly the blue eyes opened. But something was off. Finch was staring at a ceiling blankly. Not blinking.


	3. Chapter 3

For a brief moment, Finch wondered if he was dead and this was hell. This cold black abyss with the background chatter of demons. He couldn't help picturing an angry red devil, complete with yellow cat eyes and a mouth of razor sharp teeth, leering over him with a pitchfork. Invisible to his eyes as he taunts him with his very existence through calm breathing. Then again, was he going to hell?

He thought back to the many numbers he had saved with Reese's help. If this is heaven, why is everything pitch black? Without thinking, he whispered a name. "Grace."

If this is heaven, Grace would be there or some form of her. His attempt at rationally analyzing heaven amuses a small part of him. Even in the afterlife, he was a number cruncher, a king of probability and hypothesis.

There was a quick intake of breath at the name spoken before a slow 'no' was said in response. The voice was male and rather pained. It sounded raspy from worry and guilt. But Finch didn't recognize the owner. He ruled out the devil since he thought he would have a deeper sort of menacing voice. Not the weak wheeze that he had just heard.

"Harold…?"

He licked his dry lips, now aware of who was in the room. "Mr. Reese." He was embarrassed to find that his voice betrayed a note of disappointment. "Would you care to explain why the lights are out?" Finch struggled to remain casual, as if being saved from torture was all in a day's work.

John blatantly stared at the man in bed before him. The operative reached for the folded pair of eye glasses resting on a nearby table. His index finger traced the thick black frames that were cool to the touch.

"Finch, the lights are on. You're in a hospital." He said hospital as if it explained everything. Reese heard one of the machines his partner was hooked up quicken in pulse reading.

Harold took a long blink before letting out a little sigh. "It seems I've gone blind." The only appropriate way to describe his tone was surrender and defeat. His head turned toward John and his unseeing eyes gazed over. Waves of uncertainty seemed to fill the air around them. Neither said anything when the nurse walked in.

"I see you are awake, Mr. Duck." She was scribbling something on a clear purple clipboard and not actually looking at anyone in the room as she approached. She firmly planted her feet next to John, an utterly business – only aura about her. Reese smirked at the name he had chosen for Finch. His lack of creativity was showing.

If Finch was amused at the name, he gave no sign of it. His head turned slightly toward the sound of her voice. "I can't see." The statement was flat. Part of John wished it had shown more emotion though he could only imagine what Finch was feeling.

The nurse inched closer, a thin flashlight already pulled out as she reached over to widen his eyelids. Harold flinched at the tips of rubber gloves applying pressure against his face. He felt a small warmth on his eye and he could only assume some kind of light was shining on it.

"It doesn't look permanent." Behind her, she noticed the younger man's shoulders relax. "Probably just his body's way of coping with little food and water. Shutting down certain functions." Slipping the flashlight back in her front pocket, she pulled a stethoscope up from around her neck and plugged her ears in.

"I just want to listen to your breathing, make sure your lungs aren't damaged. It'll be cold." Her hand swiftly slipped under his shirt and John caught a flicker of frustration on Finch's face before it turned into a mask again. "Deep breaths please."

He obliged, feeling violated at her touch despite the fact that she sounds beyond professional. Harold felt helpless. At least with his leg, he could still walk or maneuver a wheelchair if the pain became too much. But to be blind, even if it was temporary, sounded terrifying. He wouldn't be able to look at computer screens, read book pages, see the colors of his clothes. He was becoming more and more of an invalid. He hated it.

"What will be your treatment plan for…Mr. Duck again?" He could hear the smile in Reese's voice and for some reason, it irked him.

"Hmm," Her voice was a few feet farther away. "Mainly just give him rest. We'll have to get x-rays done to check for any stray bone fragments, physical therapy obviously and perhaps some dieting to help get his sight back on track. The doctor will probably want a more thorough examination of his eyes as well, just to ensure that it is not a permanent situation we are looking at." Idly, he wondered if this is what he sounded like to people. Dry, unfeeling…robotic. "Have you finished filling out the forms?" Her eyes glanced at the pile of papers on the floor.

"His brother insisted on filling them out. He will be coming here sometime day." Finch's brow twitched in confusion. What on earth was he talking about?

"Was he a witness to the shooting?" Her voice had gone hard now, suspicion evident.

There was a small rustle of fabric before Reese answered. "Yes, he was the arresting officer to the shooter. NYPD." His lies were as smooth as butter.

An annoying beep sounded and the nurse murmured a soft 'excuse me'. Her shoes made light thuds as she walked out of the door.

"My brother?" John let out a low chuckle as the other man's baffled expression.

"Why yes, Harold, your little brother Lionel who works at NYPD. He's rather short, snappy, likes donuts a bit too much." Again, Finch felt the familiar tinge of anger towards the voice's light joking tone. Part of him wanted sympathy, a hand to pat his and say everything was going to be alright. Yet the other part of him just wanted to get lost in a book, to be buried alive at the words of any life but his own.

Must have been the painkillers that were giving him such a bipolar personality.

A cushion was squished as John sat back down on the chair next to the bed. He had been holding the glasses so tightly during the nurse's examination that they had left a bright red impression in the palm of his hand. Though he would never show it, he was nervous for Finch. He had a feeling the billionaire would be forced to stay in the hospital for several months. Reese had every intention of staying with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note – The nurse's mistake is on purpose.


	4. Chapter 4

Time had passed. Weeks or months, Finch could not tell. He felt almost as he was in a flashback. The treatment was similar to what he had gone through to walk upright after the…accident. Even if it was a flawed walk, a polar opposite to the commanding stride Reese possessed, he was secretly proud of it. The doctors had been doubtful of his recovery and one was so bold to say he would live and die in a wheelchair. A comment that proved to be wasted on him. He was determined not to quit, to walk and not be confided in a rolling chair. The term 'disabled' terrified him. It was like a death sentence for him. Even the word wasn't referring to his intelligence; it stabbed his pride more than anything.

While Harold was at home in the frigid hospital, Reese remained uneasy. It wasn't as if he was accustomed to hospitals or the slow process of healing. When he was with the Company, there was no time to heal, no time to be weak. If shot, he would throw some water on it, maybe a cloth and go. A hospital was out of the question. In addition, one time when he had a moment with the doctor, Reese had repeated what the nurse had told him and asked how long such a solution would take. The white - bearded man had wrinkled his nose and eyed him strangely.

"That's….an interesting thought. However I doubt that's the cause of your friend's blindness." The corner of his hairy upper lip twitched, clearly amused.

John raised his eyebrow. "Not my theory. One of your nurses thought of it." Surprisingly, the elderly doctor let out a low chuckle.

"Obviously medical schools aren't what they used to be, eh? Just like everything else. Shame. But I'm afraid that idea is rather farfetched. Quite the load of bull." He glanced back to his patient, who was being prepped for an x-ray.

The abuse he had taken had put an even larger toll on his old injury and despite the doctor's nagging, Finch had refused to take any painkillers. He had no wish to undergo the feeling of being drugged again. Not that he bothered to mention the reasons of his firm refusal to the doctor, leaving the professional to believe his patient had a general hatred for the medical practice.

This surely must have been true due to his demeanor to the staff. Naturally, he imagined losing your eyesight and being beaten continuously for a few weeks wouldn't have you singing about rainbows and ponies but the eighty-seven year old sensed an internal turmoil. But it wasn't every day the staff had nicknamed a ward and avoided him like the plague.

He was Squidward, jabbing sarcastic insults at the staff whenever possible over petty things. The condition of the sheets, the constant beeping of equipment, the ruckus of patients cluttering the hallways. His companion tried his best to smooth things over but there was only so much he could do, covering for an unapologetic man. The pair didn't talk either, leading him to believe there had been some sort of fight between them or that Mr. Duck was behaving in similar ways to his seemingly only friend. The doctor frowned as the man now chided a nurse while she fastened the lead apron over his head. Despite being in a wheelchair, the patient was fiery as ever.

Turning his head, he stole a look at the man's sole friend, who was fiercely concentrating at a space in front of him, index finger resting on his lips. Normal wards would have a spouse that stayed with them and various friends that visited and dropped off the usual round of flowers. Yet John, as he told him he preferred, was the only person to seen beside the cripple. Not even a card was sent. Though there was a brother, Mr. Fusco hadn't been nearly as devoted to his fallen relative as this mysterious man. The automatic assumption would be lovers yet neither of the men triggered his gaydar.

So he waited for a girlfriend or at least a friend that would come, maybe to see John yet nothing. He would catch him using his phone on the rare occasion but other than that, he seemed completely isolated. No using the wifi to check Facebook or even browse the internet. He was zeroed in on his friend and completely content in living in the hospital for several weeks.

"I didn't get her name…" Reese half mumbled, mentally kicking himself.

"Sorry?" The wrinkles on the doctor's face tightened in concern at John's low hiss.

Automatically, John smiled, as he was trained to do to hide his emotions. His eyes remained still and almost lifeless. "The name of that inexperienced nurse. "

Inside the ex-agent was worried. A million scenarios whizzed in his mind and he struggled to remember the nurse's face and behavior. He had been so tired at the time, he hadn't been nearly as careful as he usually was. With no name and, if he remembered correctly, no visible badge, he felt as if he had finally caught some of Finch's paranoia.

Finch.

The man had done a complete 180.

He still remembered the first couple cases with the genius. Harold had been hesitant to so much as breathe the wrong way in front of him. Yet here was the same man, snapping at nurses and hospital staff alike like a less hairy version of the Grinch. The billionaire hadn't even uttered a single word directly to Reese since he first awoke beside a strict 'good morning' every day. He felt like the father of the class troublemaker, struggling to smooth the ruffled feathers of the staff.

They felt sorry for him, he could tell. No doubt they gossiped during lunch break about that poor man locking away in 315 with the ghastly blind grump. Sure, the patient was blind but he was behaving like a spoiled child. And oh, how Mr. Reese would try to apologize for the insolence his friend processed but he never left his side. How strange, they must have thought.

Strange was right. Though the silence of the hospital room was troubling, John never pushed for a conversation. He had tried a few times in the beginning only to be cut down with a curt "Good night Mr. Reese" and Harold turning his back to him in fake slumber.

He wondered if the other man blamed him. It sure seemed that way. Hell, he blamed himself. But it hurt him more to think that Finch could blame and hate him for all of this. He wasn't sure why.


	5. Chapter 5

"Do you enjoy this?" John asked. He noticed Harold's shoulder give a slight flinch but other than that, his back remained facing him. No response.

He hadn't been expecting one.

Between a quiet investigation into the nameless nurse and Finch's teenage-like behavior, Reese had grown restless and confined against the preen white walls. He ached for the feel of a gun in his hands, to walk in through a crowd of uncaring faces. Here in the hospital, there was no way to get new numbers and no other source of talk beside nurses and the occasional Fusco.

Here Reese smiled a bit. Fusco seemed to be under the impression that he needed to bring in food for him every time he visited.

"Can't live on this hospital crap for too long," the detective had muttered earlier that day, half embarrassed as he dumped a brown bag of Greek food near to him. An aroma of grilled chicken and onions floated in the air and he involuntarily licked his lips.

"Never thought I'd see you giving away food, Lionel." John lazily peered inside and saw a wrapped gyro below. Reaching in, he nodded his thanks to the flustered Fusco.

"Yeah, yeah, big surprise," he jerked a thumb toward a stumbling Finch who was in the middle of a physical therapy session. The cripple had a nurse on either side helping his weakened legs support his weight. Fusco could only describe his facial expression as sulking. "How's Glasses?"

Reese's eyes gazed over slightly. "Not the best." As usual, Finch had refused to have John be fully present during these exercises, leaving him to watch from a distance. He didn't push to participate for the recluse's sake but his patience was wearing thin. At times, he had wished for someone to talk to that knew Harold a little more than he did, maybe Grace. But there was no way for him to simply walk into her home and ask her personal questions about a dead fiancé without raising suspicion.

"I've seen this before…." Lionel bluntly motioned toward Finch's back. "They get depressed, angry about injuries. I mean, the guy just lost his sight and has an even worse leg." Reese's lip curled as he took a bite of the gyro. Fusco continued.

"You gotta shake it out of them." Here Reese raised an eyebrow. "Well not literally but…kinda press it out…I don't know…just don't hold him at gunpoint or anything." Fighting the urge to laugh, John almost choked on his food. Fusco just glared at him.

Back in the present, John rested his chin in his hand as he lean his elbow on his armrest. His eyes bore into Finch's horizontal back.

"I know you're awake, Finch."

A pause.

"Mr. Reese, I would prefer not to bother while I'm-"

"While you what exactly?" Reese's voice had a chilling edge to it. "Lay in bed and try to pretend I'm not here?"

Harold's shoulder twitched and he slowly turned to face the agitated man. All he saw was blackness but the anger in his companion's voice was obvious.

"If I'm boring you, please feel free to explore the grounds," He stated flatly, face unfathomable.

A sigh.

"You must enjoy this," the voice had a note of defeat in it. "Why else would you be this…difficult?"

Again, he found himself flinching. The hurt in Reese's voice was so foreign. Pushing away a feeling of guilt nesting in his chest, he struggled to pull himself up into a sitting position. Wisely, John made no effort to help him, remembering the sharp snap Finch gave him the last time he had attempted to support his back.

Out of breath now, the patient turned his head and stared at the space he had a vague idea the other man was seated in.

"I do not enjoy this anymore than you do. In fact, I think it would be better if you just went off to do what you wish to. You obviously have grown restless here."

"…what I wish to do?" His voice was taken back. Finch struggled to maintain a neutral voice.

"The only possible reason you could have stayed here as long as you have is a sense of obligation and pity. I helped you heal and I assume a soldier's mentality makes you feel as if you owe me for it. So if you could please do us both a favor and stop pretending as if you care. I'm sure you have some female friend or such that needs proper attending to." By the end of his statement, his words sounded far bitterer than he had intended.

He had wondered what his "employee" did in his off time. In fact, the first few days without a number, Finch had tried to track his motions in and out of his various motels but with no avail. Reese avoided cameras at all costs. Only one acquaintance had been found, an elderly blind Chinese man that used to be a chess champion. That didn't seem right. He must have more allies, he had thought.

There was another long pause and once again Finch wished he could have see - the dumb-struck expression on Reese's face no doubt priceless. And while Reese's face did indeed have such an emotion on his face, it was for an entirely different reason.

"Is that what you think?" He whispered, stroking his chin in wonder.

Harold nodded instead of answering, suddenly feeling small at the quiet response.

"That I've been sleeping here, never leaving your side, trying to help you for this long – all out of a favor? Since, obviously, I could never care for you at all." Finch's skin crawled. He hadn't expected this sort of response. He had been prepared for Reese to actually agree and get up and leave. Not for this raw anger that had him picturing steam coming out of John's ears.

"I-"

"No." John's voice grew more and more tense. "I want you to understand something, Finch. I am not leaving. I don't care if you don't want me here. I don't care if you call your bodyguards to try and drag me away. But I," he leaned forward, stressing his words, "want to be here. Not because of a return favor but because I consider you my friend. Because I do care what happens to you."

He swallowed a bit before continuing. "You seem to find it hard to believe but you are the only person I've allowed myself to get close to in a while. And I like you and your humor, your wit. I cannot afford to leave you behind in such a state even for a moment. The last person I left died thanks to my decision. I won't let that happen again." There was a strong finality to his words.

"Harold?" Finch's head had dipped down and he was twiddling his thumbs in confusion.

"You consider me…your friend?"

"Yes."

"…people who are friends with me usually wind up dead."

"We're all going to die eventually. Though I think I will get a gunshot rather than a natural death." Harold felt disturbed at the calmness behind the statement. Yet what Reese had said soothed his original feeling of irritation at the operative's constant presence during his recovery.

"…I'm sorry for the accusation."

"Apology accepted." He could hear the smile in the answer. Something else nagged at him but he pushed back in his mind, not wanting to ruin the peaceful moment.


	6. Chapter 6

The smell of Angus beef on a bun felt almost filthy in comparison to the aroma of the hospital air. Fusco clutched at his brown paper bag, trying to smother the fumes from escaping any more. Instead, it let out a crinkle of protest. He frowned at the oil stains clearly visible on the sides. Silently, the cop hoped Reese might actually eat the meal this time.

John had lost weight over the two month period of Finch's recovery. Really it wasn't that surprising considering the hospital food he ate everyday rather than leave his friend's side. Fusco often wondered how the tall man managed to eat the crap served and still have a functioning body. But he did, for the most part. Days like this, Fusco would bring in some street food and he would watch John take one bite and "save" the rest for "later". He had caught him giving away multiple barely eaten meals to some cancer patients. Most likely, with the mindset that they needed then more than him. But soon, that might change, Fusco thought.

Reese had let himself go, in a way. The ex-agent was relaxed and no longer on the line of duty every day. He had been so intent on finding the unnamed nurse and monitoring Finch's recovery- he often forgot to eat. Hunger had been a variable he was trained for and so it gave him less problems than it would cost most. But it still hurt and even clouded his judgment.

While John's health dipped, Harold's improved. His bones and muscles were, for the most part, better. His eyesight was, to the doctor's surprise, had been slowly coming back. But it was like wearing the wrong glasses' prescription. The most he could see were moving blobs of color as people. Once Reese was allowed in the physical therapy, no one could deny that his progress had gained momentum. But neither of the two ever mentioned the sudden mark of improvement. Both were still uncomfortable with the thought of dependence on one another.

Fusco, on the other hand, was perfectly content with describing his visits to the physical therapy sessions with Carter whenever he could. Reese had teased him on more than one occasion about it.

"Like an old married couple already, Lionel? So glad to see you've moved on." His eyes gleaned in amusement while Fusco visibly bristled.

Looking through the glass window on the hospital door, Lionel could see Finch standing. The recluse had recently caught a cold but had been insisted on continuing his daily regimen. There was the physical therapist on his right and John on his left. Not surprisingly, Harold clung to his partner rather than the fair blonde man. His fingers were desperately wrinkling the fabric of Reese's black dress shirt and most likely with a bone crushing grip. It reminded him of when his son was getting his training wheels off. He had joked with his wife (ex – wife now) later in bed on how he had needed a pair of pliers to "get the kid off".

Reese had a tingling feeling in the back of his neck, like he was being watched. Automatically, his free hand reached for a gun that wasn't there. He felt naked without his weapon. Not that he couldn't defend himself without it yet it was one of the few constants in his life. He preferred to keep it that way. He heard the click of the doorknob before his eyes meet Fusco's.

"Detective." Finch hissed out a greeting, a drop of sweat going down his forehead.

The therapist, a Mr. Gates, glanced between the three men. "Perhaps we should take a break?" His hand pulled away from his patient and John gave him a nod. As he exited, Lionel moved to give the brown bag to Reese. "Nothing on the BOLO yet, before you ask."

John ignored the offered bag and helped Finch into the bed. Harold cringed a bit as Reese laid him on the mattress, one arm under his waist and another lifting his stiff knees. Once prompted on the pillow, he tugged at the bright yellow quilt Carter had sent through Fusco a few days before. The gay coloring contrasted with the cold atmosphere of the room. His fingers fumbled with the fabric, feeling restless.

"You should eat, ya know…" Tired of holding it, the cop tossed the food at the operative. He wasn't surprised when John caught it with one hand effortlessly.

"Yes, Mother." Reaching in the bag, Reese pulled out the burger and took a bite. A glob of ketchup oozed out of the sandwich. He caught it with his pinkie and flicked it back into the bag. "But when something comes…"

"You'll be the first to know. The same thing I've been telling you since the beginning. We'll find her." John remained unconvinced.

One thing he had managed to do in his free time was contact a sketch artist. Using the gunshot report as a cover up, he had the woman had sketched out his description of the "shooter". Instead, he had given out the basic body and face of the nurse from their arrival in the hospital. Carter immediately set out a BOLO on the picture, trusting Reese's instinct. It was a long shot but it felt a little better than just to sulk in the hospital halls and try to bump into the same nurse again.

"So I was thinking-" Before Fusco could get another word out, there was a thud against the door. Slowly, a cart of white linens traveled through the door, behind it a red headed nurse. She was sheepish as she rolled the cart farther in. As soon as the door closed, she rushed to close the window blinds, much to the confusion of her company.

"Nurse Swimford," Reese murmured in greeting. She was one of the new nurses, shy and eager to help.

"Mr. Reese and Mr. Fusco," She gave a little bow, looking like a nervous high school caught in the principal office. "And Mr. Duck of course." Finch offered a twitch of a smile. "I brought some clean sheets for you. It might help to change them more often, to defeat the cold faster." The men in the room continued to stare at her as she placed a folded pile of sheets at the foot of the bed.

"Well that and I'm trying to avoid one of the doctors- Doctor Benton," she blushed. "He…asked me out and I'm not…"

"Interested?" Reese seemed amused, his eyes twinkling.

Nurse Swimford nodded, her cheeks now a bright tomato red. "Oh!" She scurried back to the cart and bend down to the second level. After some scuffing, she resurfaced with an old Vicks humidifier. It was clucky and awkward to hold but when John made a move to help, she shook her head. The liquid inside sloshed as she set it against a wall next to the bed and plugged it in. She glanced at the light as it glowed from power and gave out a huff of relief. "To help with Mr. Duck's breathing." The nurse stood there for a while, as if proud of her forward thinking. Small puffs of vapor floated into the air. A silence followed.

"My son used to call the blue part a head of a koala. We named ours Rudolph the Yellow – nosed Koala." John let out a snort of a laugh and Swimford giggled. The awkwardness thinned by Fusco's ridiculous comment and the woman peeked out the window before heading out, giving out a small wave to Reese in farewell.

"A koala…" Harold's voice sounded as if he was trying not to laugh.

The detective shrugged. "Well someone had to say something to get her out. Anyways, I was saying-" He was interrupted a second time, his phone ringing mid - word. Tugging his phone from his belt, he flipped it open violently. "What?...well ok, anything else? There's a shooting in this damn city every hour- oh there's a homicide, there ya go. Thought you called me for some gang crap…..wouldn't be the first time." He hung up without a goodbye, as usual.

"Duty calls," He said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I'll tell you later." Bobbing his head, he took his leave. Reese and Finch were left in the room, something they were used to. Harold suddenly coughed a strangled noise. He sank into the pillows and turned his head to look at his partner. John had taken a seat next to the bed, his face blocked by a white blur.

"What are you doing?" He tried to squint to get a better picture but with no avail. The white blur moved down and Reese answered.

"Reading a book - Dickens." Harold wasn't shocked; Reese had taken to novels to escape the boredom of the hospital more than once. "I can read it out loud if you like." A wash of embarrassment came over Finch as he considered how happy the proposal made him. He really had missed the ability to read a good book.

"I would appreciate that."

The white blur moved to block his face again. He took a deep breath before beginning.

_She was dressed in rich materials-satins, and lace and silks - all of white. Her shoes_

_were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers_

_in her hair, but her hair was white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands,_

_and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid than the dress she_

_wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about. She had not quite finished dressing, for_

_she had but one shoe on - the other was on the table near her hand - her veil was but half_

_arranged, her watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those_

_trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some flowers, and a Prayer-book, all_

_confusedly heaped about the looking-glass._

Finch's eyes grew heavy. He had a sudden desire to sleep.

_It was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though I saw more of_

_them in the first moments than might be supposed. But, I saw that everything within my view_

_which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was faded and_

_yellow._

Reese paused, blinking. The nurse must have had a strong perfume for there was a sweet smell in the air. His eyes were watering and he made a move to rub them. A yawn escaped him as a wave of exhaustion came over him. Still he continued.

_I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the_

_flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress_

_had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it_

_now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone._

He yawned again, this one a bit more audible.

"Miss Havisham boring you, Mr. Reese?" Only someone who knew Finch well enough could tell he was teasing him.

"Not at all. She's a regular patch of sunshine."

_Once I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what_

_impossible personage lying in state._

Harold let out a soft snore. John smiled but didn't pause any longer.

_Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a_

_rich dress, that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement._

Here Reese's eyes closed in a long blink. He was getting a small headache. Maybe I do need some food, he thought. He started to get up from his chair as he read on.

_Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I-_

Once on his feet, his headache grew worst and his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, knocking over a small table. The book in his book slipped onto the floor and slammed closed. John tried to get up but found he couldn't. He was too tired, too drowsy.

"Fi-nc-" Reese's voice was lethargic and came to his ears in a cloud of fog. "He-l…."

His eyes closed.

Harold was startled awake by the crash of the table. Looking toward it, he could barely make out the black outline of Reese sprawled out on the floor. Immediately, he pressed the nurse's button. The figure gave him flashbacks to the night John was shot and his heart quickened. He pressed the button again.

A human white blur came through the door and approached him. "You called?" The voice sounded muffled like they were covering their mouth with something.

"My employ- my friend has fallen down. I don't know why – he was perfectly normal just a few minutes – I- could you please- help-" The nurse's hand was pushing him back into his pillow.

"You just need to relax, Mr. Finch. Everything is going to be just fine."

"I feel so- wait you just-"

Yes, I did call you Mr. Finch," he could hear the smile in her voice. "Just relax and sleep. Don't fight the gas."

"Please jus-" But his eyes closed against his will before he could say anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

Red and white checkers on the floor. Finch's chin was stabbing his chest when his eyes opened, wildly trying to take in his surroundings. He had been propped into a withered wooden chair as he could tell by the spot of oak in between his legs. His arms were bonded to the chair arms and he could feel the thick rope rubbing against his wrists as he shifted his weight as best he could. A gasp escaped him as Harold felt a sharp pain in his lower back. Both of his ankles were attached to the legs of the chair but he couldn't tell by what. He tried to pull his leg and heard an odd suction noise. It was amplified by the silence in the…kitchen, he had realized. There was a greasy gas stove to his left, blackened from lack of cleaning. The mosaic walls had grime in between the while tiles. It had him picturing an overweight middle aged man in a ketchup -stained apron and a blackened spatula in one hand. The counter on his right was filthy yellow tile, with the same grease and grime as the walls. Unable to turn his head, he could only feverishly stare in front of him. There was a small opaque window, a light maroon color outside. He blinked suddenly.

_He could see._

Not as 20/20 as with his glasses (which he was not wearing) but much better than the blurs he was used to. He was smiling despite himself and his heart swelled a bit with pride. He had proved the doctors wrong again. Finch still remembered the days leading up to the morning he had first woken up to actually see.

_It had a few days after his apology with Reese. Things were…interesting. He no longer snapped at the nurses, which downright shocked most of them. John, however, sounded much more – brighter, was the word he would use. Before, his voice had a flat tone to it, not the steely tone it took when he was working on numbers but a foreign flatness. Now, Harold could hear the brightness in his voice and Reese's teasing of nurses actually brought a small smile to the billionaire's face, as much as he tried to hide it._

_They spoke of idle things. Mainly Reese would softly ramble about places he visited, colorful personalities he remembered from his travels. Naturally he edited out the parts that involved his actual CIA missions and his partner Kara. But it was because he knew that Finch knew and saw no reason to go into those dark memories. The recluse felt as though a new side had come through Reese – someone more personable and not as guilt - ridden. The night before the faithful day, the pair had been going over their first face – to – face impressions of each other._

_"Well, I did tell you part of my first impression of you," John's voice came from the right of the bed, indicating he was sitting in his usual seat. "A crazy rich man, maybe even a stalker. The black trench coat didn't help either." A pause. "It did suit you well though. Mysterious and stiff fitting."_

_"I thought it made me look me taller." Finch had mumbled under his breath. He was a little embarrassed at the other man's chuckle._

_"It did." Harold's lip twitched. "But next to those two goons, anyone would look short. If you wore heels, maybe-"_

_Finch let out a cough. "Yes, I imagine that you would have definitely taken me more seriously if I was to wear six inch heels."_

_"You never know…" He could hear the smirk in Reese's voice._

_"You reminded me of a bear. A tall grizzly bear." His fingers laced together onto of his stomach as he continued. He could hear the fabric of his partner's chair as he shifted. "If I hadn't been somewhat scared stiff of you, I would have scheduled an appointment at a hair salon. Luckily, you took care of that for me."_

_"Still couldn't stop yourself from leaving a medicine cabinet full of shaving cream and aftershave in my apartment though, could you?"_

_Here Harold let himself a grin. "Just wanted to keep you properly trim, Mr. Reese."_

_"Don't think I missed the Chinese takeout menus either. You thought of everything."_

_"There was a card for a custom suit tailoring session on top of that pile…"_

_"I know. I cancelled it."_

_He had fallen asleep that night with a smile on his face, something he had been doing lately. In the back of his mind, he couldn't remember doing that since Grace._

_When morning came, he had kept his eyes closed as he twisted and turned in bed, as was his morning routine. He preferred not to open his eyes to the black abyss of the day just yet. With his eyes closed, it made him feel normal, not being able to see. He suspected that Reese was in the cafeteria to get food and the door was locked._

_Though he didn't show it, Finch could easily feel the slight paranoia coming for the ex-agent. Harold had no idea what exactly had happened during his rescue from the warehouse and the unnamed nurse 'problem' had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. But he trusted John with his life. He almost never left Finch alone if he could help it. In fact, more other than not, it was Harold that pushed him out the door, even for a walk up and down the hallway. People like Reese needed to move. So once every morning, Finch had a particularly friendly nurse, Ms. Swimford, make sure his friend headed out at least once. Lately, it had been timed to correspond with Finch's mental alarm clock at 5:30 A.M., giving him a few minutes of privacy every daybreak._

_He rubbed his eyes and finally opened them. To his shock, instead of the dead black, he was blinked by a piercing white. Instinctively he closed his eyes and rubbed them with the tips of his fingers. What was that, he thought._

_Cautiously, he opened his blue eyes again. Once again there was a white buzz all around him. He moved his head side to side. A darkened rectangle floated in the left and there were two red cubes to the right. Faint lines were between the two. He was beginning to think this was a strange dream._

_Just then, the rectangle moved forward and smaller, into a line. A black blur glided in, tapping of shoes growing louder as it approached._

_"Morning, Harold." Reese's deep velvety voice echoed in the room._

_"I must be dreaming…" The Reese blob moved a fraction in what he assumed as a head tilt._

_"You feeling okay?" There was a note of soft unease in his tenor._

_Finch clenched at the sheets, as if unsure they were real. But they were cool and smooth, just as every morning. This morning, however, he could see them move slightly and his own hands were orange spots._

_"I can…I can see." He felt his mouth relax into a wide smile and he looked up at the black blur in front of his bed. "Not terribly well but…it's something." He had the vague feeling of the fact he was stupidly grinning at his partner but he honestly didn't care. He could see. That's all that mattered._

_John approached the mattress and reached over to squeeze his hand. If it had been in any other situation, Harold would have followed his impulse to pull away but instead he fully grasped the offered hand._

_"That's great, Finch. Really." He heard an unfathomable emotion in his voice but blinded in his new recovery, he didn't question it._

"Harold? Are you still sleeping?" A perfectly manicured hand rested on his shoulder. He turned to glance down at it. It was petite and feminine, just like the note of the voice it went with.

Root brushed against his restrained left arm as she squeezed past the counter to face him. Her delicate features were fixed in a friendly smile and her brown locks cradled her face. Her right hand was still rested on his shoulder.

"Finally. You were out for at least twelve hours or so. The therapy this morning tuckered you out, huh?"

The woman held a casual air about her nevertheless Harold still remembered just how easily she had shoot Alicia in cold blood. He had been forced to dump her lifeless body unceremoniously behind and had yet to forgive himself for the act. "How." He said simply, not wanting to give her the satisfaction to see he was unnerved.

She shrugged, the fabric in her dress sneaking up her collarbone. "It's amazing what people will do for money. I admit she was a good asset while she lasted."

"Was…" His eyes narrowed. A picture of the shy Nurse Swimford flashed in his mind.

Root raised her other hand, revealing a small revolver. "She was a loose end. I think she might have even got a little crush on your Mr. Reese. Charmer, that one." She shook her head, as if they were talking about a child instead of a grown man as she set the gun on the dirty countertop.

"Originally I thought I could manage it myself. Sneaking into the hospital was a piece of cake, such a disappointment. I had hoping for a challenge. The custom nose application, contacts and that stubborn wig, though - that was the real challenge. I would always have to breathe through my mouth. No idea how those movie stars manage."

The confusion must have shown on his face for she smiled again, amused.

"Come now, Harold. You built a machine half of the people in the world wouldn't dream of yet you can't wrap your brain around a little plot in your life." Her lips formed into a pout. "Don't let me down now." He felt her fingers moved back and forth on his shoulder and he stiffened. Her smile grew wider.

"What, Harold? Uncomfortable?" Root came closer and carefully sat down onto his lap. Pain snapped into his already injured leg and he took a sharp intake of breath. Her right arm had snaked around him and her left hand had crossed over her own lap to rest on his left thigh. The fingers of her right hand were calmly placed on his neck. She leaned toward his face, her nose barely touching his. He made a move to back away but her fingers firmly grasped his neck, forcing him forward.

"Now, Harold." Her tone held a light scolding. "Think."

His personal space being more than invaded, he found it difficult to breathe properly, let alone analyze what he had just heard. Abruptly, it clicked.

"You were the first nurse. The one that met us in the hospital." He stared at her in disgust. "You examined me."

"Not really examined," she replied flippantly. "Just checked to make sure my men hadn't left you completely broken. And just my luck, you weren't! The sight lost was a bit of a letdown but just as I expected, you pulled through." Root patted his left thigh and he resisted the urge to squirm. "You're just such a fighter." She left out a theatrical sigh and lifted herself off his lap.

"It's rather unfortunate for me. I gave those men one week to break you. Usually around day six, I get a report of results. But not from you." She pointed at him, frowning.

"No, I didn't hear anything good from them in two weeks. Daily reports of course but no progress. That's when I knew I had to take matters into my own hands." She reached for the gun on the counter and aimed it at his left knee.

"Now, let's get to know each other a bit."


	8. Chapter 8

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Reese's left cheek was flat on the floor. It felt like cold tile, imprinting a pattern on his face. Cautiously he opened his right eye. There was a washed out cabinet and an edge of a porcelain sink he could barely make out. He could see the stopper of a door in the corner of his vision. A bathroom.

Drip.

Drip.

His hands were pinned to the small of his back. He had been bonded and gagged with duck tape. It pulled at his skin, making the slightest shift uncomfortable.

Drip.

His eyeball rolled around in its socket, trying to take in the room with the least movement possible. Opposite of the door, he could make out a blue rod, unmoving.

Drip.

Drip.

Sensing no one else in the room, he took a risk and turned onto his back. John sharply took in a breath.

The pale rod had been a leg.

On the right of the sink, Nurse Swimford sat on the toilet, legs at odd angles. Her arms hung out as if waiting for an embrace. Her eyes, however, had a frozen expression of shock in them. They were murky with the look of death. The woman's mouth was wide open in a gasp. Her red locks were still in perfect curls. A black knife handle was sticking out of her chest. A kitchen knife, he noted. The red blood had dried to a dirty brown, staining her blue scrubs. If he squinted, it could have passed as a patch of dirt. Reese shook his head at the corpse.

"I'm so sorry," He mumbled under his breath. Tearing his eyes away from the body, he maneuvered himself to try and sit upright. He used his legs to steer him toward the cabinet. After a few minutes, his back are resting against the wood. Reese let out a puff of breath. He really needed to get back into shape, he thought. His legs extended and he got a glimpse of his scuffed black leather shoes.

He could have sworn his knee popped as he forced his torso up with only his tied feet for support. John slipped downward a couple times but finally set himself upright, his hand painfully grasping at the edge of the sink.

Drip.

Drip.

The faucet dripped in a simple rhythm. It was the only noise in the room, other than his heavy panting. John glanced at the disgraced state of Nurse Swimford. His eyes closed in hurt and regret. This was his fault.

As he had collapsed on the floor of the hospital, he had been certain the petite nurse with the tentative smile was to blame for the drugging. The one thing he had noticed too little too late. He had been doing that a lot lately.

His eyes remained fixed on the blade in her chest, directly over her heart. His fault. His mind flashed back to the car ride where he woken up a bit early than Root had planned.

_"You did great. I couldn't have done it better myself," the voice sounded far away and familiar but he couldn't place it. His body was slumped in an upright seat and they were moving. There was the faint hum of a car engine in the background. A feminine hand held his right, the thumb stoking the outside of his hand. In stark contrast, he felt the cold end of a gun barrel firmly pressed to his neck. His head bobbed as they speed over worn New York gravel. He struggled to keep still as his heart rattled in his ribcage._

_Reese heard a flutter of a sigh. The thumb had stopped and the hand squeezed his. If it wasn't for the gun, it could have easily been a squeeze of comfort. "As long as I get the money." The voice was of another woman. It was strained with guilt and pain but it was clear who it was. Nurse Swimford – Mary Swimford if he remembered correctly. 24. A tragic case of a teen pregnancy and father abandonment._

_Her son was Todd Swimford – 5 years old and born with leukemia. Reese had suspected back in the hospital that her son was the real reason why she had a position there. Based on some nurses' gossip, Todd would be due to take radiation soon. However, Mary's bank account had been far too empty for the amount for such a treatment until recently. He had a small notion of mentioning it to Finch when he was better off, to leave some 'pocket change' for the family, as a sign of good will. Partially because he felt that she had been more than attentive during her time with them. Looking back, the bank account and care should have been a sign. But he had blinded with pity and fatigue. A bit of vanity on his account as well, he supposed._

_Mary reminded him as the many blushing school girls he dealt with back in junior high and high school. Timid under his gaze, a high pitched laugh that was too merry to be casual. Fumbling fingers that danced a nervous waltz with one another as they made small talk. Yet he believed those shy eyes when they asked him how he was and how was Mr. Duck's progress going._

_"All in due time," the familiar voice replied, a new edge to her tone. A car horn blared outside the car window and he felt the driver step on the gas pedal._

_"What are you planning to do with them?" John felt his mind begin to drift into sleep. He was surprised at the nurse's genuine concern._

_The driver giggled. His blood froze to ice at the sound. Root. "Oh I have great plans for Harold. We're going to be great friends. John, though," she huffed a bit, "he will be a challenge. I'll have to dispose of him properly."_

_An awkward pause._

_"Are you alright, Mary?" Root spoke like a friend yet by the sharp intake of breath next him, Reese thought she was anything but. "You look pale all of a sudden."_

_He barely heard the mumble of a response before everything fuzzed away._

_Eventually he woke up again as both women were struggling to place him in a wheelchair. His light groan was ignored and he was pushed through a doorway. The only distinct thing he could see was a brick wall around the door. Root's perfume filled his nose as she steered him through what looked like a squished townhouse. The chair was abruptly lifted and he was dumped onto the hardwood floor like garbage. His brain rattled in his skull and his hand automatically reached for his forehead._

_"I'll go get Harold. You keep watch on John, okay?" The hacker's boots clicked out of earshot. Mary kneeled down to his left, her worried face coming in view overhead. He tried to pull away but his motions remained sluggish._

_"John." She whispered. Her eyes were tainted with regret and pity. In fact, they sparkled with unshed tears. "Are you alright? Can you walk?"_

_He had just stared at her._

_"Please," her fingers tugged at his worn jacket. He could feel his nails digging in his skin. "I had to. Money is tight – Todd's – god, Todd." Mary shook her head and closed her eyes forcefully. "I was a teen slut whose parents disowned the second I came home with a pregnancy test. I can't even give him proper toys. He makes car outlines out of the cardboard from the freaking recycle bin for crying out loud. And now I was going to let him just die? I- she told me she could get me a million if I just watched you guys and reported back to her. She even put 500K in my account for insurance. I- god I was greedy. I had no idea…" She looked at his face and lightly touched the side of his face._

_"I am going to help you. Both of you." Before he could respond, Mary's head jerked up at the sound of the wheelchair returning. Finch's head was bowed to the floor and her heart dropped at the sight._

_Root came up from behind Finch and slowly approached John, a needle in one hand. His eyes were burning holes through her, untold rage oozing him despite his helpless position. She laughed._

_"You remind of my childhood bulldog. So…stubborn." Her heel lifted up from the ground and pressed against his Adam's apple. Mary had gone stiff in panic._

_Taking the needle close to his face, Root hovered for a moment before stabbing it into his neck. Reese's eyes rolled back into his head in pain and his back arched involuntarily._

Looking at the dead woman, he regretted his callousness earlier on. Moreover, he regretted what he was about to do.


	9. Chapter 9

"You already know my name of course. Root. Here with the true Harold Finch," she shook her head in a gesture of amazement, "Never thought I'd see the day."

Finch's eyes had not moved from the gun since it had been aimed at his knee. She had since had the barrel rest on his kneecap. The weight of the metal against his pant leg was beyond unsettling. Root seemed not to notice.

"I used to envy you, you know." Here she laughed a little. "Oh, your code. Your beautiful code – it was so…superior to the filth you see nowadays. There was a short period I wanted to perfect my code – to achieve over you, to conquer the status of beauty you held so easily in your keyboard strokes." The gun drifted off course. She placed it back on the countertop, looking lost in thought.

"It took months for me to realize I would never succeed. I admit, I have outsmarted you several times since then but never achieved over you. Maybe one day." Root took a step closer to him.

He looked down at her shoes, trying not to gulp at her closeness.

"Oh Harold," he flinched as her hand cupped his right cheek. Her eyes were swimming as she smiled at him. "There's no need to be afraid. In fact, there's no need for any of this really." All he could see was those eyes and the brown locks that framed her petite face.

"We are going to be great friends. All you have to do is take us to your access point and we can set your baby free. " Her thumb had begun stroking his cheek in a slow rhythm. "Wouldn't you like that?" She whispered, leaning closer. "Your machine…free." And abruptly her lips were on his and her hands were cradling his face toward her. Without thinking, Finch frantically pulled away from the kiss, eyes bulging from their sockets.

"I'd rather die," he said plainly, eyes intent on her shoes, "than help you."

There was a pause and then Root slapped him across the face. Finch yelped and his eyes burned. But after, he grew quiet.

"We are not that much different, you and I." She spoke after a minute or two. Her voice was noticeable lacking the lightness it had before.

"The code speaks to us better than any other language. Better than the tripe that is human language – human nature. We are a greater evolution of the men you seem so willing to save from their deaths. The men that walk the streets everyday – they are nothing compared to us." Her back was to him now and he could see the veins in her neck grow more pronounced.

"So why save them? Why save the bad code – more importantly, why waste your time, your talent on them? I could find no logical answer." One of her hands was fiddling with a ringlet of hair as she spoke.

"You know what's wrong with you, Harold?"

Root swiftly turned on her heels and faced him, eyes cold in anger.

POIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIP OIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOI POIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIPOIP OIPOI

Once on his feet, Reese hip hopped his way toward the bod- Mary's body with little difficulty. It wasn't as though he hadn't been tied up this way before. Quite frankly, he had expected more from Root. Some sort of set up gun that would trigger at his slightest motion. Instead, he had been dumped carelessly in an urban bathroom by the looks of it. Though he had to say, perhaps that was Root's true weakness. Arrogance and underestimation.

His back now to the lifeless body, he turned his head over his shoulder and stretched his hands out, trying to get a grip on the knife. Slowly John found himself close to sitting on the poor corpse and at last his fingers found the handle. He was on his third tug when a short yelp was heard from outside the door.

"Finch!" He hissed in anger and his motions became more urgent. He tried his best to ignore the noise of the knife as it dislodged from the nurse's chest. It brought back memories of old CIA ops. He shook his head, the blade already hacking at the tape. Now was not the time to willow in regret. Harold needed him. As he continued to move the blade back and forth, Reese closed his eyes and tried to listen in on his surroundings. He could make out a happy tone of voice speaking somewhere on the same floor. It was a distance away but there. Since the yelp, it had been the only thing he could hear and he could only assume his friend was still alive.

The alternative was not an option.

There was a release of pressure and his hands were free. Despite his instincts, he kept his motions slightly slow, determined that to make a sound. The ex – operative made short work of the rest of his bindings before scanning the bathroom again. No window and a cheaper shower curtain. The smiling yellow ducks seemed to mock him in their scattered pattern. He considered ripping down the curtain rod from the wall as another weapon but decided it wasn't worth the risk of noise. Next, he leaned his ear close to the door of the bathroom. The voice became clear.

"You know what's wrong with you, Harold?" A pause. "You actually care. At first, I thought perhaps you were helping this vermin so you could have people in your debt. People in debt are quite useful – need little incentive or handling. But then," Root's voice suddenly raised in frustration. "I realized you were just helping them. Helping the bad code for no reason. No motive, no advantage. Just to help. It was disgusting!"

John grabbed the door handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the repeated line helps frame the timing of events for you guys. That was my goal.


	10. Chapter 10

Since Nathan’s death, Finch had been the epitome of self hatred and grief. And perhaps more than anything: empathy. Everything he had not been before the acciden- murder. Before the murder, he was the image of stiff genius with a side order of arrogance and shyness. How those two came together, he wasn’t quite sure. Yet he quite remembered his first stammering moments with Grace just as well as his feeling of self – dominance over others as he built the Machine. Just a plugging in of a wire and he could find out the receipts of a cheating senator, a doctor’s side business of illegal prescription – he had the power to do that. It was the rush of power that really got to him. He never abused the system. No – he was too good for such petty vigilante action. He had made this for the greater good – to save the country. While politicians bickered in their offices and armies loaded guns, he was lying on the concrete ground, building the ultimate solution. A world that, for the longest time, had bullied him into corners, at long last, was dependent on him – on his success.

But after the murder, the world suddenly seemed too precious. People walking down the streets had blood in them that could easily be spilled. People were fragile and irreplaceable. That woman across the street was someone’s daughter, that grandmother sitting on the bench had a husband – the irrelevants had loved ones. They finally had faces and lives that he felt. 

Root’s exclamation of disgust was like a mirror into the past. And it was ugly.

“You wouldn’t understand. That much is clear.” His eyes briefly glanced at the gun on the countertop before daring to look her in the eyes. Her eyes were swimming. Her whole position was rigid in rage.

“And please – enlighten me, Harold.” Root’s voice was dangerously low.

“You’ve never lost someo-“

In a flash, the gun was back in the hacker’s hand and aimed for the center of Finch’s head.

“You know nothing about me.” The man had fallen silent under the gun threat. His eyes swelled and his mouth was still open in mid sentence. Root continued. “I have lost someone, if you must know. In fact, she was the whole reason behind…” she gestured with her free hand up and down herself, “all this.”

“She died thanks the scum that walk the streets now. Judgment clouded by emotions – love, lust, anger. Just like you.” Here, tears began to run down her face. Her cheeks were red and blotchy underneath her layer of blush.

“I thought…I thought you would be different. I thought – the machine – the –, “ The brunette cleared her throat and wiped away her tears. After a shaky breath, she pressed on. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. All that matters is what is. And you are ruled by sentiment just like the rest of them. But your machine,” the light was rekindled in her eyes as she spoke of the Machine. “Your machine uses pure logic and code to draw conclusions – it’s perfect, Harold.”

Something must have shown in his face for Root had looked at him once again and hissed in frustration.

“You wouldn’t understand. That much is clear.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm. “Emotions make you weak – they equate to biased deductions. Why do you think the idiots you gave the Machine to are handling it with kid gloves? Why they hide behind smoke and mirrors and shoot the first hint of public knowledge? Because they fear the reactions of Americans – the emotions of rage that will lead them to the polls to vote for someone else in office. “

Finch blinked rapidly and schooled his face. The barrel of the gun seemed to take up the whole room. Root’s words had become an insane hum in the background. Words mashed together that sounded logical but were not. 

“But that can’t happen. If the people are angry, there will be no office the size of a master bedroom to go to every morning, no giant paycheck, no trophy wife to go home to – they might even need to downsize. They let their greed take control of logic… Wastes of oxygen!” She yelled the last sentence, eyes suddenly dancing with a madness that was beyond unsettling. But just as quick as the outburst had been, it was gone and Root looked completely in check. 

“You’re…insane.” Finch’s face had dumbstruck written all over it. Her words were all English yet it felt like a foreign language. Perhaps years before, he might have been able to process – even agree with the argument she made. However, he had grown. Yes, people were ruled partly by their emotions but what of it? They made people human. The only solution to her so called problem would be to live in a utopia of robots and circuitry.   
She smiled, every inch of her calm and collected. “No, I am a high functioning sociopath – which I have accepted. When it comes to killing people, it’s quite the useful attribute.”

Root took a step closer, gun still steadily aimed at his captive. She drew a breath to continue when there was a faint clatter somewhere in the building. Immediately, her gun arm spun toward the noise. She glanced at Finch, half amused. 

“It seems your lapdog John has joined us after all. Make one sound and I will put him down, understand?” He nodded though his stomach flipped in excitement. He had confidence in John beating Root in hand to hand combat even with the female armed as she was. Maybe there was hope.  
The woman took a step outside the kitchen before pausing and tilting her head. 

“Hmm. I have a better idea. Instead of wasting my time with a cat and mouse game, I’ll make him come to me.” Smiling with no teeth, she aimed her gun toward Finch and fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: o.o I’m really nervous about this chapter arggggh. I’m trying to write Root without all of Season 2 clouding my thoughts. Ah well. And a cliffy for you too.
> 
> And yes - Sherlock reference. I am not sorry.


	11. Chapter 11

His fear of guns had first manifested in childhood. His father was an overly macho man from the South. Guns and booze were his bread and butter while his mother was an odd ball Southern belle with a fascination with mechanics. Mix a stereotype with a woman born in the wrong decade and a scrawny pale boy with asthma was born.

A male human with asthma was an unfathomable concept for Finch's father to grasp. He clung to the idea that with enough running and exercise, his son's lungs would be normal and strong like a chip of the old block. So as soon as Harold could walk, his father pushed him to run in the mornings. This activity usually consisted of the young man getting up at 5 in the morning and running around with his father in tow, yelling vague insults about his manhood down his neck. Or at least, the manhood insults started shortly after his seventeenth birthday when the prideful man was frustrated to yet see muscles blossom from his teenage protégé. The words hardly bothered the teenager now, having lived with his pushy father for years already. And there was his mother, who seemed to really understand him more than anyone. She seemed the only one in the town that was ok with a skinny teenage boy interested in math instead of girls and sports.

The final straw was on his eighteenth birthday when his father had insisted on a man day, spending his mother to an overnight spa or some other ridiculous place to make her leave the house. Then father and son headed to the back shed, also known as the unofficial man cave. Twenty years worth guns and dusty whiskey bottles were hung up in a hasty fashion.

After a "celebratory" shot of whiskey, his old man had handed him a shotgun and slurred over a long speech about how hunting was in their blood. He announced they were going off to the woods a little ways from their house to shot an animal down for the 'man'. Finch had bitten his tongue about asking which man it was because he had a feeling his father didn't know either. They spent hours wandering the forest, scaring many a elk and critter in the process due the youth's clumsy footing. Eventually the pair came in sight of a young deer straying a little too far from his mother, grazing a few yards away. His father motioned wildly to the gun in his gun, eyes filled with mirth. Harold raised the gun without hesitation, thoroughly convinced this was the only way to get home before nightfall and get back to read the physics book his mother had bought him a week earlier. The shot felt like a stab in his eardrums and he fell to the ground at the backlash of the gun. Lying on his back, he clutched his ribcage in pain, gasping for air.

In response, his father quickly pulled him up. The eighteen year old glanced at the scene he had caused and his stomach flipped. He had missed the painless headshot he hoped for and instead there was spreading red ooze from a side belly shot. Its eyes looked lost and confused at the pain. Then the sprint of its mother seemed to crush all the leaves in the forest. The fawn's feet danced fruitlessly as it struggled on its side. The mother deer was rapidly licking the wound and at every flick, the baby whined. Abruptly, a second gunshot rang and an explosion of red painted the ground below the mother as she was taken out with a precise headshot. Harold's father let out a whoop of joy.

"Gotcha!"

But all the boy could see was the fawn taking its last breaths in the blood of its mother and he felt queasy. Before he could process what he was doing, trees were passing him at the speed of light and his legs carrying him away from the horror. That was the last day he saw his parents.

Unfortunately that wasn't his last encounter with guns. Life after the bombing had lead to many muggings. His limp and choice of clothing (which he refused to change, despite Grace's and later, John's insistence) made him an easy target that looked loaded. Usually he never fought back and simply handed them his money, cufflinks – anything valuable to get them to put the gun away. But there were a few muggers that ate up the fear that screamed in his eyes when he looked at their gun and waved it around more than necessary even after they had taken all his possessions away. Needless to say, soon after they found themselves being arrested by a certain Detective Carter for a small petty crime that they never committed or woke up with packages of drugs around them and an angry mob boss looking them down.

Every glance of a gun brought him back to his childhood and that dying fawn and mother. Admittedly, it had a grotesque resemblance to Agent Starling's nightmares in Silence of the Lambs and he probably should seek some counseling but he could never see himself comfortable with a gun in the room. Even with Reese (though it had been growing easier), guns made him uneasy.

Obviously, getting shot at was very stressful. When Root fired the bullet, it was like an instant replay of all the different gun and near death encounters in his brain. No, his life did not flash before his eyes. No, he didn't think about his family. He didn't even think of Reese. Just barrels and blood, irrelevants' faces, fawn blood – all that red.

Amidst the drumming of his heart and the swirls of red swimming in his eyes, there was an inhuman roar and a crash. It was noise of rage and emotion that could only be compared to a lion protecting his pack. Or just a wild animal in general. Following it was a yelp of pain and hiss. It was like a zoo and a lion and hyena were battling in front of him.

In the mess of things, he heard his name spoken twice. Then there was a final thud and silence. It was only then he realized he had kept his eyes shut the entire time. His body trembled like a leaf, his head drenched in nervous sweat.

Gentle hands fell on the side of his arms and rubbed them up and down.

"Harold?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the dragging out angst – I just felt like writing this o.o


	12. Chapter 12

Shock had blurred most of his memories from that point on. Somehow he had ended up in Reese’s bedroom in a bundle of blankets and shutter shadow light burning his eyes. A few car horns hummed in the background and he could make out some scuffling somewhere else in the apartment. For a moment, he wondered if he dreamed the whole terrifying experience. But then he felt his raw wrists under the sheets and the widespread ache of his body. His hand automatically reached out to the nightstand for his glasses as he slowly swung his legs off the bed. But his hands grasped at empty air. His palm grazed the nightstand’s glossy finish. Forcing his eyes to focus, he looks dumbly at the bare night table minus a very modern looking lamp and realized that he was not at home. His side table was stacked with books, two burner cell phones and a stained glass desk lamp that really had no reason to be there. Harold rolled on his back, and looked around.

  
Reese’s apartment – his bedroom, to be more precise.

  
He recognized the cheap framed print of Monet’s House of Parliament Sun. At the time when he was putting together the gift of the apartment, he had struggled a little trying to make every detail fix John’s personal. He needed a painting that was refined yet power in its statement. An Impressionist painting seems to be quite the subtle allude to how much he knew of John at the time. A general shape could be seen – a guarded ex-federal agent but no details besides what was on paper, hence the blurriness. He shook his head subconsciously as he reminisced his weird poetic tendencies. A Van Gogh had been out of the question – too predictable and Degas was too feminine. There was a Pissarro print – Boulevard Montmartre at Night (with no people of course) - placed in the hallway but this Monet had been the one that he had seen and automatically deemed apartment worthy. The cold blue shadows of Parliament contrasted with the fiery sun similar to Reese’s cool demeanor to the quick and violent outbursts of strength that came through in a fight. Again…Finch was being far too poetic for a part of the male species.

  
Besides the painting, everything else in the bedroom was standard modern bachelor quality – not including the general cleanliness of the place though. That was to be attributed to time in the military. The blue-gray walls were very streamline and felt alien compared his humble abode where the walls were a rich green with crowning. But he had decorated the apartment to fit the profile of a New York businessman, not an aging computer junkie, he reminded himself as he struggle to get out of bed. Harold’s stomach growled as he swore he smelled sausage. He shuffled his bare feet out the door and down the hall, side eyeing the Pissarro as he passed. He was not terribly shocked to see Reese in a comfortable but tight gray t-shirt, cooking sausage and what looked like pancakes on his stovetop.  
“Morning, Harold.” Reese did not turn immediately but set down the sausage pan with leisure before making his way over to where Harold was awkwardly standing.

  
“How long was I…incapacitated?” He didn’t realize that he had been hugging himself like a lost fifth grader until Reese gently pulled his folded arms apart and scrutinized his breathing for a bit. After a long stare and brief pulse taking, Reese seemed satisfied and ushered him to the breakfast bar. “Mr. Reese, how-“

  
“Ten hours – not too long.” John’s arms were laying flat on the corner top as he leaned toward the older man. “You were in shock for a while after I took care of Root. I doubt you remember us taking a taxi back here?” His eyebrow rose.

  
Finch adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Well, no I do not recall what happened after the struggle that occurred after the gunshot.” He rubbed his chest with his right hand, half in question.

  
Reese had turned round and attended to the meal halfway through Harold’s sentence but sensed the question in his voice. “She shot next to your head and didn’t even graze you. I’m guessing she didn’t want to harm you just yet. Not sure why – she’s a good shot so it wasn’t a miss. It was intentional. “

  
“Perhaps she was trying to prove her humanity to herself…” Finch’s voice trailed on thoughtfully.

  
John’s voice turned harsh as he plated some sausages and pancakes. “Well, I don’t see how kidnapping two men and bribing a nurse shows much humanity.”

  
“She believes she has a proper purpose behind her antics – an attitude I can sadly relate to.” The older man toyed with the sausage on his plate with a fork as he spoke, darkly pensive.

  
“Harold…” A warning tone.

  
Finch waved his fork in dismissal.

  
“I trust I wasn’t too much trouble in my state of shock…”

  
Reese’s mind automatically drifted back to hours earlier.

  
_Root’s still body was lying lifelessly on the ground, her eyes closed and blood gushing from her head wine red on the tile. Still blind with rage over Harold’s safety, Reese had felt no remorse for the beating. Instead, he raced to his fallen friend, calling his name repeatedly. But Finch wouldn’t answer. The cripple was shaking like a leaf and had watering eyes but refusing to say a word. In fact, he didn’t show any sign of acknowledgement as Reese supported him around Root’s body and down the fire escape of the building. The only sign of life was the wheezing that passed for breathing and his left hand that desperately clung to Reese’s torso. Reese had taken off his companion’s glasses at one point in the taxi ride to look into eyes like looks so panicked and yet so empty._

  
_John rubbed the shaking man’s back all the way to the apartment._

  
“Not really, it was easy to carry you,” Reese commented as he bit into a sausage, the picture of nonchalance.

  
Harold still seemed doubtful as he cut nimbly into a pancake but didn’t press the issue. They eat the rest of the meal in comfortable silence.

  
Finch finally asked as he placed his plate in the sink.

  
“And Root?”

  
Reese didn’t miss a beat as he opened the faucet. “Not a problem anymore.”

  
Harold seemed noticeably sad about the hacker’s fate but nodded.

  
“Thank you for saving me…John.”

  
Here, the younger man grinned playfully, “Well it’s hard to find reclusive billionaires nowadays.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the long wait again – I’m on spring break right now from my first year in college ^^ and probably won’t write the epilogue for a while. Thank you guys for following through like you have though – it’s been fun! One more chapter to go!


	13. Epilogue

Their number was somewhere in the building, planning on downloading some very inappropriate photos of a co-worker for a blackmail ring.  Finch’s eyes were pinned to the red blob on the thermal surveillance camera feed.  Its blinking reminded him of a heartbeat.

The only audio with this vague visual was the noise from John’s mouthpiece.  Heavy, yet calculated breathing and if you listened really well, you could hear a faint licking of the lips.  Very faint.  For Harold, it was easy to picture the rest of the scene from far too much firsthand experience.  When on the hunt, Reese’s eyes narrowed just barely than their usual squint and his whole body looked pinched.  His face aged and darkened an extra ten years; he had a pout of concentration he would never admit to.   A weapon in his hand was like an extension of his hand. 

Since the Root…incident, there had been a subtle change between billionaire and operative.  An openness that Finch had never realized was not present until it was…if that made sense.  Either way, it was refreshing and both sides adjusted to the new step in the relationship after a month or so.  More and more, Finch was finding himself checking up on John without an excuse of a number – with no excuse at all really but to mention a certain sports game Reese might want to go to or lightly pressure him into going to a tailor.  The non-reasons were wide in variety but equally pointless.  For a first time since leaving Grace, Harold felt like he had a true companion.  Not just a gun for hire to help save the people he so damned was his machine.  Someone who cared for him and someone he cared for.  Someone that didn’t get terribly flustered at his four in the morning calls about new security in the library.  Someone that would do little adjustments to the library office space, like added pillows, and not comment on Finch’s need for them.  At the same token, John was someone who he would handle a gun for.  Someone he subconsciously check the GPS location of, besides Grace, at random times in the night.  Someone he would honestly die for if needed.

Harold finally had a friend and his name was John Reese.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Just caught up with Season 3 and got around to ending this story ^^ I just wanted to end with some short fluff.


End file.
